Page 52

Chapter 2

Brodie stood alone in front of the easel which held the poster-size draw sheet showing all the teams’ results and next opponents. Even after studying this spiderweb of brackets, he couldn’t figure out how a bonspiel worked.

All that mattered was Hard the Herald Angels Sing were not playing Duncan’s team, All Through the House. In fact, during the next game, they would be four sheets apart—on nearly opposite sides of the six-sheet rink. Far enough to avoid another chaotic encounter.

Behind him, the curlers and volunteers created a cheery hum of laughter and chat. A bouncy version of “Santa Baby” floated throughout the “warm room,” the curling term for the rink-side lounge where everyone gathered to eat, drink, and be even merrier than they were on the ice.

Brodie took another sip of tea, though he hardly needed the caffeine, as seeing Duncan was enough of an adrenaline rush. He should’ve been hungry after missing breakfast, especially now with the scent of a catered buffet wafting in the air. But his stomach felt like origami paper in the hands of a toddler, folded and crushed every which way.

A round of applause went up as Duncan’s team and their opponents entered the warm room from the rink. The members of We Four Kings sat down at their sheet’s designated table, while Duncan and his teammates stayed on their feet, no doubt taking the Kings’ drink orders. Winners buy first round was another example of curling’s extreme sportsmanship that Brodie found so endearing.

His heart pounded faster as Duncan approached the bar, his head swiveling back and forth, scanning the warm room for?—

Their eyes met, and the crowd between them seemed to thin. Duncan said something to his mum, who nodded and patted him on the back. Then he came straight for Brodie.

Duncan stopped a few feet away, a twitchy smile playing over his more-kissable-than-ever lips. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Brodie fidgeted with the moon-shaped pendant beneath his shirt. “Congrats on winning your game.”

“Thanks, you, too.” Duncan stepped aside for a volunteer lugging a case of Irn Bru to the bar. “At least, I assume you won, based on how happy John and Heather looked. I still don’t understand how to read a curling scoreboard. Hanging numbers on a hook under other numbers…”

“I think the number above the hook shows how many points you have.”

“Then what’s the number we hang under that number?”

Brodie shook his head. “Not a fucking clue.”

The sound of their shared laughter warmed his chilly toes. Duncan still looked amazing in that faded navy University of Glasgow hoodie, the one that brought out the blue in his eyes, the one he’d always let Brodie borrow when he was cold and even when he wasn’t cold.

Seeing Duncan again, standing beside him again…it felt like Brodie was finally home.

Maybe if they focused on the present and kept their conversation light, they could get through this day without a major row. And if they could do that , it would buy them the time and space tomorrow—or better yet, tonight—to forge their connection again.

So. Small talk. “Which is your favorite team name here?” he asked, pointing to the draw sheet.

“I like Baby It’s Cold Inside,” Duncan said. “It’s not a pun, and you don’t need to know anything about curling to get the joke.”

“My favorite is the team we just played, Grandma Got Run Over by a Zamboni. They don’t use Zambonis for curling ice, but it’s funny anyway.”

“Remember last year when we watched the cartoon based on that song?”

“Weirdest Christmas film by a mile.” Brodie rubbed the back of his neck, which was warming at the memory of how the two of them would snuggle in front of the TV, hands roaming beneath Duncan’s tattered tartan blanket, teasing each other until they finally shut off the telly and gave into their need.

“Erm, so…” Duncan stuffed his hands into his hoodie pockets. “Sorry about getting off on an awkward foot earlier. I’d no idea you would be here.”

“I didn’t know you would be here until this morning. John forgot to mention your family’s shop was the event’s biggest sponsor. Though even if I’d known that , I would’ve assumed you’d be playing football today.”

“Yeah, Mum and Dad guilted me into this event after I told them I was going to grad school for sport psychology instead of coming back to manage the shop after uni.” Duncan gestured to the long, wide window looking out onto the rink. “Not that an afternoon curling makes up for a broken promise.”

“It’s okay to have your own dreams,” Brodie said. “You don’t have to follow in your parents’ footsteps.”

“I know. They know it too. They turned out to be a lot more understanding than I’d expected.” Duncan took off his Santa hat and ran a hand back and forth through his close-cropped, nut-brown hair. “But I wanted to do something to make them happy, you know?”

That was the essence of Duncan: sometimes ballsing things up, but always trying his best for those he loved.

“Funny,” Duncan said, “I didn’t recognize you at first, because of the beard.”

“I’ve only just grown it the last couple of months.” Brodie stroked it with the back of his fingers. “It’s long enough now it doesn’t itch anymore, and it keeps my face warm. But I’m not used to the scruffiness.”

“It suits you. Makes you look older and, erm…bigger?” Duncan’s gaze flitted over Brodie’s cheeks and along his jaw, then came to rest on his mouth. Those electric-blue eyes glazed over, enough to broadcast his thoughts, enough to make Brodie imagine how their reunion could’ve gone: tumbling onto the closest bed, tearing off clothes, kissing, touching, fucking, letting the months apart melt away like snow in a spring thaw.

Brodie looked away, at the forest of silver and gold streamers dangling from the warm-room ceiling. He and Duncan weren’t alone in a hotel room, bridging the divide between them. Instead they were in a curling rink, surrounded by several dozen revelers who were well on their way to getting blootered off the selection of high-quality-yet-reasonably-priced booze. In this atmosphere, it felt like anything—from miracle to catastrophe—could happen today.

Duncan cleared his throat. “I heard we’re to change positions each game. Do you know how that works?”

Brodie’s shoulders relaxed at the return to a safe topic. “If you were lead curler last game, you curl second in the next one. It’s meant to add fun, but I think it adds confusion.”

“I was lead in the first game. Mum said it’s where I’d do the least damage.”

“I was lead too. John said it was because I was good at putting up guards.”

Duncan snorted. “Can’t argue with him there.”

Brodie rewound his own words. Putting up guards. He couldn’t deny he’d once had a habit of shutting down or retreating to avoid rejection. Years of bullying at school had taught him to freeze or flee instead of fight.

But the last six months abroad had forced him out of his shell. He didn’t want to go back to being the hesitant, insecure lad he was before, even if that was the lad Duncan loved.

Time to be clear about the man he’d become. “It was never about you, you know.”

Duncan blinked at him. “What wasn’t?”

“Extending my internship through the autumn term. When I told you I was going to Russia after Nigeria, you acted like I did it just to hurt you.”

“Wait, that is not what I said.”

“You implied. Heavily. More than once.” His stomach twinged, like it always did when he stood up for himself. “More than twice.”

“But I never?—”

“’Scuse me for a wee minute.” Garen, the Jingle Bell Rocks coordinator, sidled between them and grabbed the marker from the draw sheet’s easel. “This needs updating before I forget. Great games, lads, by the way.”

“Thanks.” Duncan gave Brodie one last glare, then focused on Garen. “Belter of a job with this event.”

Garen’s face lit up like he’d won the lottery. “Really? You think it’s going well? That’s such a relief.” He took off his reindeer antlers, then slipped them back on again, the headband pulling his shoulder-length sandy hair out of his eyes. “It’s my first time organizing anything more complex than a takeaway order, so I am freaking the fuck out.”

“It’s all for fun and charity,” Brodie told Garen, trying to keep his own stress out of his tone.

“Aye…” Garen chewed on his lower lip as he studied the draw sheet, then wrote the names of Duncan’s team and their opponents into the slots for their next games. “I think that’s right.” He frowned at the brackets for an uncomfortably long moment. “Probably?”

Brodie looked at Duncan over Garen’s head. “I should go and broomstack now.”

“Me, too.” Duncan’s eyes were wide with plaintive hope. “But we’ll talk later?”

“Definitely, we’ll…we’ll make things right. Today. Promise.” As Brodie turned away, he attempted a wave that felt more like a muscle spasm.

He wove through the crowd back to his table, where he sank into the seat between John and Heather.

“Sorry, mate.” Heather slid a pint of ale in front of Brodie. “I got you one of these.”

“Thanks.” Brodie took a sip to be polite, glancing over at All Through the House’s table. Duncan’s parents were surveying him from afar with the same car-crash-witness look as John and Heather.

The Harrises had been like surrogate parents to Brodie, and most of his pals were also Duncan’s. Their lives were enmeshed in a way that made any disharmony ten times as awkward. But that shared community of family and friends also made it hard to simply give up and walk away.

Especially at Christmas.

* * *

At the end of his slide, Duncan released the stone and gave it an extra push, though the last thing it needed was more speed.

“No!” called Ellie, who was now the skip. “No no no!”

A familiar refrain regarding his throws. The stone was going too fast for Mum and Dad to keep up with it, much less sweep it. At least this time he’d not fallen over.

His stone reached the house and crashed into one of their opponents’ stones, then another. Both yellow rocks flew out of the house while his red one spun to a stop in the center.

Whoa.

Ellie jumped up and down, waving her broom. “Yaaaas, ya dancer!” His parents shuffled over and wrapped him in a double bear hug.

“Is it over?” he asked. “Did we win?”

“Not yet,” Mum said with a laugh, “but it’s a lot more likely now, thanks to you.”

He headed back to the hack to fetch his broom, sporting what felt like a delirious grin.

“You smashed it!” Luca gave him a high five. “Almost literally. I’m shocked those stones didn’t explode on impact. How did it feel?”

“Amazing.” That word didn’t do it justice. A double takeout wasn’t as thrilling as scoring a goal, but it was pretty close.

If only Brodie could have seen it. But he was all the way over on Sheet A, near the opposite wall.

All Through the House went on to win the game. Luca seemed particularly chuffed, as his boyfriend, Oliver, was coaching their opponents (Hack Yourself a Merry Little Christmas).

Both teams returned to the warm room, where the air was toasty but now reeked of beer.

“Sorry, everyone!” Garen called out from behind the bar. “We had a minor mishap with the lager tap, but it’s been fixed.” He seemed even more frazzled than before, with antlers askew and eyes panic-wild. “Normal service will resume as soon as we mop up the mess.”

Soon the beer was flowing again, and the other curlers made their way off the ice. The tables sat in the same order as the sheets, so Brodie was on the other side of the warm room during this break. If Duncan wanted another clumsy conversation with his boyfriend, he’d have to go out of his way for it.

Maybe it was better to wait until they had more time and privacy. Too bad Duncan was rubbish at waiting.

The next game found them once again playing on adjacent sheets. Since Duncan was now the vice-skip—the busiest position on the team—he barely had time to notice. If he wasn’t sweeping or throwing, he was strategizing with his skip/dad, conveying the current plan to his other teammates, or updating the scoreboard (correctly, fingers crossed).

But near the end of each end, when the skips were throwing, he and Brodie stood in their respective houses to tell the sweepers what to do. Knowing the love of his life was right there beside him was an electric thrill that demolished his focus.

It wasn’t only Brodie’s presence distracting Duncan. It was the change in him since his return from overseas. He called out commands with confidence, never second-guessing or blaming himself for mishaps like he would’ve done before. This new self-assurance was, frankly, really hot, but also a bit intimidating.

Och, that probably said more about Duncan than it did about Brodie.

“How about…here.” Dad tapped the spot in the house where he wanted the broom placed for his penultimate throw of the game.

“Got it.” Duncan set his broom with its orange head facing the other end of the sheet. He was starting to piece together how curling was played, but his glimmer of understanding only highlighted how much more there was to learn.

A crack sounded from Brodie’s sheet, then a curling stone came rocketing toward Duncan. By pure reflex, he did a vertical leap to avoid getting bowled over by a twenty-kilo hunk of granite.

“Sorry!” Brodie dashed past him and stopped the rock by hooking the head of his broom under the stone’s handle. “Got away from me.” As he hustled back to his own sheet, he said, “Belter of a jump there, by the way. Reminds me of when John’s kitten heard the smoke alarm.”

Duncan smiled as he set his broom back in place. “So now I’m a kitten instead of a puppy?” Brodie had often compared Duncan’s enthusiasm to that of a baby Golden Retriever. “Should I be flattered?”

“Maybe.” Brodie pushed the rogue stone into place with the other out-of-play rocks. “Kittens are affa cute.”

Duncan’s face warmed. Ah, how he’d missed Brodie’s Doric adverbs— fair and affa —from his native north-east of Scotland.

Uh-oh. Dad’s stone was already zooming down the sheet. It wasn’t exactly on target and looked like it might drift too far inside. “Yes! Sweep!” Duncan shouted. “Hard hard haaaaaard!” Wow, that felt good.

His father’s red rock knocked into one yellow stone, then another, knocking both out of the house. Duncan caught the one on the side before it could slide onto Brodie’s sheet.

The opposing vice-skip took off his glove and extended his hand to Duncan. “Good game.”

Wait, how could it be over already? “Don’t our skips still have another rock to throw?”

“Aye, but it’s now arithmetically impossible for us to win, so we’re conceding.”

“Oh, cool.” Duncan shook the guy’s hand. “I mean, good game.”

His opponent laughed. “It was, but I don’t mind ending it early.” He pulled a tissue from his pocket and dabbed at his runny nose. “I’m pure shattered after three games.”

The eight of them headed back to the warm room to broomstack. Two by two, the other teams followed, each entrance being met with a round of applause, regardless of results. Duncan almost wished his own sport could be as congenial as curling. Almost.

A bell clanged, making him jump in his seat.

Garen stood next to the bell in the corner of the warm room. He now wore a Santa hat beneath his set of reindeer antlers.

“Announcements!” Garen waved a green sheet of paper. “Before dinner, just a few notes on the seven p.m. finals.” He listed the finalists in the wheelchair-curling and stick-curling events, then the teams in a runners-up competition called the B final. “And in the A final, our two sole undefeated teams.…drumroll please, Willow.”

A wee ginger lass pounded rapidly on the bottom of an overturned bucket, then kicked a length of sleigh bells as a substitute cymbal crash. It was adorable.

Garen continued. “The first team is All Through The House, from our Santa-level sponsor, Harris’s Fine Interiors. Thanks to the Harris family for their supreme generosity, by the way.” He bowed to Mum and Dad with palms pressed together. “And playing against them will be the team from our worthy charity—and indefatigable co-planners—New Shores itself: Hard! the Herald Angels Sing.”

Of course.

Luca nudged Duncan amidst the applause. “Take it from one who knows: Playing against one’s partner makes winning twice as sweet.” His dark eyes twinkled as he offered the mischievous grin that seemed never far from his face.

“It’d be even sweeter if we could give this final a miss and get out of here. We’ve not seen each other for six months.”

“Wow. How long were you together before that?”

“About two years.”

Luca gaped at him, his beer bottle paused halfway to his mouth. “Two years? How old are you?”

“We’re twenty.” He bristled at his coach’s shock, especially since Luca couldn’t have been much more than twenty-five himself. “I know, we seem young to be committed for so long. But we’ve been happy together.” He rotated his left shoulder, which had gone a bit stiff. “At least, I thought Brodie was happy, but then he went to Nigeria for a summer internship.”

“With New Shores, I assume, since he’s in their team?”

Duncan nodded. “I was sad to see him go, but I supported him. He was helping LGBTQ people in countries where they’re persecuted for who they are. He’d done it here in Glasgow for asylum seekers who’d managed to get here, but this new internship let him help people while they’re still in their original country. If they can be more familiar with the asylum process and sort out everything they need before leaving for the UK, they’ll be less likely to get deported or sent to one of those horrible detention centers.”

“Makes sense,” Luca said. “So what happened?”

“At the end of the summer, Brodie got a chance to do the same thing he’d been doing in Nigeria, but this time in Russia. Another three months away from home. Away from me.”

“Ooft, long-distance relationships are so difficult. Did you break up with him because he wasn’t coming home?”

“No, we never broke up, we just—” Duncan turned his head to the left. “Mum, could you not eavesdrop?”

She put up her hands and leaned away. “Sorry.”

“It’s nothing I’ve not already told you.”

“I thought there might be an update,” Mum said, “now you’ve seen him again in person.”

“The only update is that things are awkward, which you can clearly see. But we’ll get past it.”

“Do you want me to talk to Brodie?” she asked. “Suss out what he’s feeling just now?”

Duncan had to literally bite his tongue to keep his cool. “Please…do not do that.” He rubbed his shoulder and tried again to roll out the stiffness.

“You all right?” Luca asked. “I told Garen four games in one day was too much, even half-size games of four ends each.”

Duncan grimaced at the thought of playing a full-length, eight-end game. “I’m not tired.”

“That makes one of you,” Mum said.

“My shoulder’s just a bit tight from sweeping,” he told Luca.

“We’ve got a wee workout room, if you need somewhere to stretch.”

“That’d be great.” As a bonus, it would let him escape his parents’ chronic nosiness.

“It’s on the other side of the changing rooms.” Luca pointed to a hallway near the kitchen. “Go through the men’s, past the lockers, and you’ll see it.”

It sounded like a healthier anti-stress tactic than drinking beer and woe-is-me’ing to his coach. “Thanks!” He grabbed his water bottle and headed for the hallway.

The workout room was indeed wee, but it was empty now and had all he needed: a mat, a bar to hold onto, and some breathing space. He took off his hoodie and started with shoulder rolls and windmill stretches, followed by high kicks to loosen his hamstrings.

A bleep came from the floor beneath the bar. His phone. He hurried over and checked the message, a group text to him and Heather:

Fergus

Greenock 1-2 Warriors!

Duncan gave a double fist-pump, then sent back a string of strong-arm and jazz-hands emojis.

Over the ceiling speaker came “I Want an Alien for Christmas” by Fountains of Wayne, a song he’d not heard in years. He returned to his football warm-ups, doing shuffling hip turns in time to the music, arms outstretched. By the second chorus, he’d made it a dance, singing along and adding the mimed hand gestures he’d invented as a kid.

“I want a little green guy about three feet h—” Duncan froze on one foot, his knee raised. “Hi.”

Brodie stood in the workout room doorway, halo-less, one hand shielding his mouth as if to hide his laughter. “Hi yourself, Britain’s Got Talent.”

Duncan set his other foot down instead of obeying instinct and sprinting over into Brodie’s arms. “What are you doing here?”

“Really, you’re starting with that question again?”

“Sorry. You surprised me.”

“I seem to be doing that a lot lately.”

This was true, and not necessarily bad.

“Anyway,” Brodie said, “John sent me in to fetch something. I think it was a ruse to get us together again.” He started skirting the edge of the room, not coming closer but not moving farther away either. Had he worn that V-neck pine-green jumper today because he remembered how much Duncan loved it? “Heather told me Warriors won. She was fair relieved.”

“Me, too. Greenock was a crucial match.”

“That’s what Fergus said.” Brodie stopped at the wall-mounted magnetic tactical whiteboard, with little discs representing stones lined up at the bottom. He stuck one of each color side by side near the center of the house.

Having a longer look at him now, Duncan confirmed what he’d guessed earlier: Brodie’s beard was unevenly trimmed, like he’d started on the left side—maybe when he’d heard Duncan would be here today—before giving up due to lack of time. The thought was strangely touching.

“I guess we’re skipping against each other in the final,” he said when Brodie kept fiddling with the whiteboard. “ Skipping , is that the right word?”

“Probably. Seems like there’s two words for everything in curling.”

“You’d think they’d all get together and agree on vocabulary. I mean, how many curlers can there possibly be in this country?”

Brodie gave him that Christ-what-an-eejit look. “Curling was invented in Scotland.”

He shrugged. “So was golf, and not many people play that either. Not compared to football.”

Shaking his head, Brodie slapped another yellow stone on the whiteboard. “You always do this.”

“Do what?”

“Find a way to be too cool for whatever’s happening around you, unless it was your idea.”

Ooh, so Brodie’s halo was well and truly discarded now. “Do I?” Duncan asked, fighting back a smirk.

“You have to slag off curling because it’s not football.” Brodie sauntered over his way. “Well, guess what? Curling is literally and metaphorically cooler than football.”

Duncan gasped. “You shut your blaspheming mouth right now.”

Brodie stopped within arm’s reach, lips twitching. “Why don’t you shut it for me?”

The air between them crackled with energy, an energy that melted all Duncan’s rational thoughts about holding back, taking their time, making sure they were on solid ground before?—

He moved in and kissed Brodie. Brodie kissed him back, with such fervor that Duncan felt like he was on the ice again, his footing unsteady and unsure.

Until he wrapped his arms around Brodie and pulled him close. That was all he needed to feel the earth holding them up, adding moral as well as physical support and saying, About fucking time, youse two .

Brodie’s beard was softer than it looked, and made Duncan’s lips tingle the way mere stubble had never done. Brodie tasted of tea and sugar and him , familiar and yet completely new.

But then he pulled away, stepping out of Duncan’s arms.

“What’s wrong?”

Brodie put a hand to his own mouth. “We can’t do this yet. We can’t sweep past the talking and just do what our bodies want.”

Technically they could do exactly that. “Right. We should talk first. Get it all out.”

“After the final. And we need to set some ground rules so we don’t say things we regret, so we don’t have a repeat of the last three months when we—” Brodie cut himself off.

Duncan finished his thought. “When we both got so defensive we couldn’t hear each other talk?”

Brodie nodded, his lips pressed tight together.

“Okay.” Think, think. “Maybe…as we’re both skipping this last match?—”

“Game. In curling it’s called a game .”

Duncan gritted his teeth. “Whatever. We could make a bet. What if, whoever wins this match?—”

“Game.”

“—gets to rant uninterrupted as long as he wants while the other keeps his gob shut and listens?”

“That sounds…” Brodie shook his head slowly “…actually pretty good.”

“Okay, then.” He extended his hand. “Deal.”

Brodie took Duncan’s hand between his own. “Deal.” Then he let go and turned away. “We should get back to our teams and eat.”

“Wait, didn’t John send you in to fetch something?”

Brodie scratched the back of his neck, looking at the floor. “Actually, I saw you leave the warm room and, well…”

“Ohhh.”

“John did suggest I use him as an excuse, so it wasn’t a total lie.”

Duncan cocked his head. “But I’ve been in here for, like, ten minutes. Why the wait?”

“It took me that long to find the nerve to follow you.”

There was the Brodie he loved—not a fearless man, but a man who acted despite his fear. A man of true courage.

“You know…” Duncan shifted his feet on the mat. “I’m not that hungry, if you want to stay and snog some more.”

Brodie gave a full-belly laugh, a sound that nearly brought Duncan to his knees with joy. It was his favorite sound in the world.

“See you on the ice,” Brodie said, and this time his smile was loud and clear.